Of Surgeons and Soldiers
by EmRose92
Summary: Being a doctor has its advantages. He knows how to put people back together, and he knows how to take them apart. 221B is forced into a hostage situation, and John seems to be the only one who has the power to get them out of it. Includes BAMF John, protective Sherlock, and several unfortunate criminals who mess with the wrong army doctor. No slash.
1. Chapter 1

__For John, because he can never have too much love.

-Emrose

* * *

**One**

They had looked vaguely familiar when Mrs. Hudson had led them into the flat shortly after nine-thirty that evening, but it wasn't until he had stood, greeted them cordially, and was suddenly looking down the barrel of a gun that he recognized them completely.

"You're from the papers," he said, and it sounded stupid even to his own ears. The man holding the gun let out a stifled caw of laughter and shrugged widely.

"Almost as brilliant as your genius flatmate." He grinned, showing wide, even rows of teeth, and nodded at John. "Smart enough to do as you're told?"

"Sometimes," John said. "Depends on what that is."

"Don't be clever," one of the other men snarled—his face was red, his body trembling slightly as he supported the near dead-weight of the injured man. "Collins, we've gotta put him down."

John glanced at Mrs. Hudson here, whose arm was being held loosely by another man with several days' stubble on his face and a thick scarf wrapped around his neck. She made eye contact with him and swallowed, her mouth opening as if she were about to say his name but he shook his head slightly, sharply. The bile rose in his throat at the fear in her face, in her hands wringing, in the way she leaned slightly away from the man who held her as her eyes flickered back and forth from the gun to John to the doorway to the ceiling, as if silently praying for help.

He offered his own prayer: _Help these men, because when I get my hands on them they'll need it more than she does._

_ And Heaven help Sherlock…because if he doesn't show up soon and get us out of this mess I might kill him myself._

"By all means," John said, as the two men supporting the half-unconscious man between them roughly lowered their burden to the floor. "Bleed all over the rug. Mrs. Hudson, you can take that out of Sherlock's rent, not mine."

Mrs. Hudson let out a whimpering sob of laughter, but the men did not look amused. They were all quiet, wary, calm, though the two who had carried their injured companion in were hovering concernedly over the still body. It was almost touching, the way they kept adjusting his head and touching his wrists and neck to feel that the heart was still beating. Almost touching, except that John found it hard to be touched by men pointing a gun at his head.

"Where is Sherlock Holmes?" Collins asked, and his eyes flickered to the stairs and back to John's face. The hand holding the gun was steady, practiced, and it somehow made John more confident at the same time. Professionals he knew how to deal with. It was the antsy ones, the ones with trigger-finger and bad aim that unnerved him.

"Out," John said. "On a case. Your case, actually. Tracking you. Make you nervous?"

Collins' eyes narrowed. "Don't play with me."

"Wouldn't dream of it," John said, and he glanced over to the man lying dying on the floor in front of him and the doctor in him itched to examine. "And neither is your friend. Are you going to tell me what you want with Sherlock before he bleeds out all over my floor?"

"I do believe these fine gentlemen are here to see you, John, not me." The smooth, silky baritone swept into the room before the speaker, and John rolled his eyes to heaven as Sherlock stripped off his scarf, coat, and gloves fluidly, draping them casually across three different surfaces before arriving to stand a few feet from John, facing their five visitors with cool aplomb.

"Good of you to turn up," John muttered quietly. "And what you do you mean, they're here to see me?"

"Sherlock Holmes? Good. Hands behind your head, sit down, and shut up. You haven't called the police, have you?"

"No," Sherlock rumbled, and slowly did as he was told, albeit in a manner that said clearly _I'm doing as I'm told because I'm intrigued by what you have to offer me tonight, not because you tell me to._ Collins noticed, judging by the tightening of his jaw, but didn't comment.

"Didn't think so. Not like you to call until you've done some investigating yourself."

"Well, he's done his homework," John sighed.

"He could be lying," said one of the men standing protectively over the unconscious one.

"I could be," Sherlock agreed amiably, and Collins shot him a death glare, hand tightening on the gun.

"I thought I told you to shut up," he said. "Our business isn't with you. Connelly, watch the door."

The other man, his long, lanky form crouched down by the injured one's head, nodded and left the room. As his footsteps faded away down the stairs, Collins gestured at the injured man with the gun.

"Treat him, Watson. You're a doctor."

"Yes, I am," John said, and clenched his fists at his side. He wasn't used to being the center of attention, not with Sherlock in the room. Here, though, were five criminals from this morning's paper, convicted of a high-end burglary of one of the wealthier families in London that had ended in a vicious murder of the father and hospitalization of his wife and two of their three children, and all of their attention was focused on him. Sherlock sat silently in the background, hands now steepled in front of him, no doubt analyzing everything about each man as well as planning several different methods of escaping the situation and neatly landing each man behind bars before the hour was out.

John, however, didn't have time for Sherlock to start snarking at their guests, not when one man lay dying in front of him and Mrs. Hudson's face was starting to glaze over with a kind of numb shock. He moved carefully but quickly over to the man's side and knelt down next to him.

"Why me?" he asked curtly. The man's heartbeat was weak but regular, eyes rolled up in his head, concussion possibly, several broken ribs, gunshot through the shoulder. He rolled his own left shoulder reflexively. He knew how that one felt.

"No hospital would admit them," Sherlock said. "They'd be arrested immediately, no way out. Clever, bringing him here…the good doctor Watson living in a private flat, easy to threaten, and you're doing it right under the nose of the Yard itself. Who would think to look for you here? While they're out scouring the city you sit in relative safety in Sherlock Holmes' flat and get your man treated by an army doctor as you hold his landlady hostage."

There was a distinct edge to his voice by the time he finished the sentence, and John paused for a moment to glance behind him at the scene—Sherlock was still sitting placidly in the armchair, staring serenely up at Collins, who had moved a step closer with murder in his eyes.

"It would be appropriate," Collins said quietly, "to never speak to me like that again. Watson will save our man's life because Tomlinson has his hands on your landlady. You, however, are a wild card. You don't matter. I can shoot you as you sit in this chair and not feel a thing. You might be brilliant, Holmes, but you're no good to anyone dead."

"You kill him and I won't lift a finger to help this one," John said, standing and turning to face Collins.

"You will because if you don't save Banks, Mr. Holmes is dead anyway," Collins said without taking his eyes off Sherlock. "We walk out of here with him alive or we leave you here with your flatmate's blood on your hands. Convince him to keep his mouth shut as long as we're in this flat and your landlady will make it out too."

There was a pause, in which John observed the people in the room as if through a thick fog. Mrs. Hudson, shaking hands pressed to her mouth, terrified tears trailing down the grooves in her cheeks, Tomlinson with a hand on her shoulder, glancing out the window unconcernedly at the sunlight spilling through the thin panes. Sherlock's eyes were hard and metallic and, it seemed to John, piercing Collins through to his very soul. Collins, to his credit, didn't look away. John felt suddenly sick, and he had to fight the urge to start cursing and possibly tackle Collins to the ground and beat the living tar out of him. But then, Mrs. Hudson was in the room, and John remembered that he was a gentleman (when there were ladies present, that is), and obscenities and broken noses would do more harm than good at this point. The fog seemed to lift suddenly, and a stifled, faint moan from the unconscious man lit a cold fire in his chest and sent a rush of adrenalin lashing out to the tips of his fingers and toes.

"Sherlock," he said, and Sherlock's eyes flickered momentarily to his, an odd mixture of concern, trust, and the beginnings of an antsy frustration flashing across his face. "Shut up."

Sherlock's lips quirked up in an almost-smile, but John turned his back again and gestured at the body on the floor. "You, help me get him up."

The other man tucked his arms under his companion's armpits and John grabbed his legs—together they lifted him roughly onto the kitchen table, where he moaned and his hands spasmed but he remained unconscious. John looked across the table at the other man, who was looking a little wild-eyed, his breathing coming erratically as he glanced from his hands, covered in his companion's blood, to John, to the injured man's face, and back again.

"Hey," John said sharply, and the man focused on him. "What's your name?"

"Lindon."

"Lindon, I'm going to need an assistant. The wound's clean through but I've got to get it patched up and these ribs set, and he's got a slight concussion. You're going to do everything I tell you to do, and you're going to do it quickly and exactly if you want to save your friend here. Understand?"

Lindon gaped, and John marched around the table and grabbed him by shirt front. Lindon was taller than he was by several inches, but he shook the man roughly and ignored Collins' angry warning at him from the other room. Mrs. Hudson let out a loud sob, and John heard footsteps pound into the kitchen, heard ragged breathing that indicated that her guard was now standing right behind John, gun probably aimed at the back of his head. Background noise, unimportant. He didn't take his eyes of Lindon's face, shook the man again, and growled,

"Either you help me or he dies. Now, listen, I don't care if he does or not. I don't care about any of you. You've murdered an innocent man an destroyed his family, and I wouldn't care if the police barged in here right now and shot the lot of you, right in front of me. I don't care about your friend except that if he dies so do the people I _do _care about. So you're going to help me save this man's miserable life so that I can get you _out_ of this flat, _out _of my life, and _never_ have to see your ugly faces again unless I'm looking at them behind steel bars. Understand?"

He waited until Lindon's eyes focused again and he got a weak "of course," and then he turned on his heel and brushed roughly past the man who'd come in as backup, shoving the barrel down flatly with one palm as he passed.

"Upstairs, first bedroom on your right under the bed there's a kit with some needle, thread, antiseptic, bandages. Another black bag in the bottom dresser drawer with medications. Around the corner in the linens closet there's a stand-up light. Bring it all. Touch anything else and I promise you won't leave here with your nose unbroken."

Tomlinson scrubbed a hand across his dark, two-day beard and glanced through the kitchen doorway at Collins, who hesitated for a second and then nodded sharply. "Do as he says."

Tomlinson left the kitchen, and John shucked off his jumper and tossed it into the corner, rolling up his sleeves above his elbows as he crossed to the sink. He washed his hands thoroughly, wished desperately for a proper surgical table and team, and returned to the kitchen table, where the man's eyelids were beginning to flutter. He bent over the man and began to peel back the layers of rough, awkward bandages the men had wrapped around the injured shoulder.

It was bad, worse than he'd thought, and he scrubbed the back of his hand across his forehead, reached for the gloves Tomlinson was offering him, and looked his two pale, completely inexperienced assistants in the eyes.

"Scrub up, gents. We're in for a long one."

* * *

Sherlock watched John through the kitchen window with a curious kind of pride. He'd never seen John work as a doctor before, not for something so serious. A different mantle had settled about the man's shoulders. He was speaking authoritatively, briskly, ordering Tomlinson and Lindon about, gesturing, pointing, speaking in layman's terms, offering "good"s and "not there you idiot"s and "water, please", "scalpel", and "out of my light, for the last time"s in the same even tone.

He didn't have the best view from where he was sitting, but he was aching to get closer, to watch John at work. Collins seemed to be feeling the same way—he kept glancing through the kitchen door and blowing sharp burst of air through his nostrils as the minutes wore on.

"Clean water, I need clean water…Sherlock, get in here." John's voice filtered clearly through the open door, and Sherlock leapt to his feet. Collins straightened, flicking the gun in a gesture that told Sherlock to stay put.

"Why can't one of them get it?"

"Well, one of them is holding a compress against your friend's bullet hole here, and the other is injecting him full of painkillers so he'll stop jerking…hold him steady, there, hang on, don't let him…there, good…and won't tear these new stitches…there he goes, watch his head…_Sherlock_!"

"With your permission," Sherlock said blandly, and without permission swept into the kitchen, pausing by John's shoulder to peer at the twitching man on the table.

"And you get after me for my experiments," he said.

"Shut it and get me water," John said tersely. The back of his neck was dripping sweat under the heat of the lamp he'd positioned over Banks' shoulder; his fine, blonde hair was plastered to his head, but he didn't seem to notice his own discomfort. His face was pale, taut, the lines around his eyes grim and pronounced under the harsh light of the lamp as his hands worked smoothly, quickly, fluidly over the man's injuries. It was the face of a man in battle, the face of a man who had lost patients under better circumstances, who had lost even more under much worse, and the face of a man who would _not_ lose this one. It was beautiful to watch, even with all the blood on John's hands and all over the table and the sweat and the moans of the injured…mesmerizing, really, and Sherlock felt that he could stand and watch John work for hours and not get bored…

"_Sherlock!_"

Ah, yes, the water.

* * *

A short minute later he was back in the chair under Collins' watchful, seething eye. Mrs. Hudson was sitting very still, watching the proceedings in the kitchen with a mixture of horror, disbelief, and curiosity.

"How does it look, Sherlock?" she whispered, and Collins made a move as if to hush her but decided he was interested in the answer too.

"Permission to speak?" Sherlock asked lazily. It was almost worth this charade to slide under the man's skin, but Collins only looked at him.

"Just answer her question."

"Most likely he'll pull through," Sherlock said. "John does good work. Too good, perhaps."

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

Sherlock looked coldly up at Collins again and felt only disgust. This common criminal was holding him hostage in his own home, holding him and the woman he felt more fondly towards than any he'd ever met except his own mother at gunpoint, and he hadn't even done it cleverly. Collins was an average mind, really, and he hadn't even been cautious in coming to 221B. It was his fault, really, Sherlock's fault—he'd walked straight into the flat with only a rough idea of why they'd chosen his flat to come to in the first place, and now his mobile was confiscated, John was working desperately to save the life of a murderer, Sherlock was sitting helplessly in an armchair, and he knew that not all of them were going to walk away from this unscathed, despite Collins' promises.

"It means that if life was just, your man in there would be dead already beside the corpse of Leland Broker and three of the four remaining of you would be in hospital in cots next to his wife and children. If life was just."

Something almost like guilt flashed across Collins' face, and then he shrugged. "It isn't, though, is it."

"No, it certainly is not," Sherlock said softly. And then he didn't say anything more for a long time.

Something in his brain reminded him every few minutes to look up at Mrs. Hudson and make eye contact, let her know that he was still aware of her. She appreciated that sort of thing, he knew, even though there was nothing he could do for her. Every last criminal in his flat would pay for putting her through another hostage situation, but it wouldn't do to let her see his anger. It wouldn't do for any of them to see just how angry he really was—it would only distract John, and it was vital that John not make any mistakes.

Mistakes could lead to Banks' death, and Banks' death, although justice would be pleased, would overthrow this fragile balance of freedom and death, of healing exchanged for lives, of trust and hatred.

Still, Sherlock had to admit that Collins didn't exude the stupid vibes that most petty criminals did. He was calm, collected, wasn't allowing himself to be distracted by the near-chaos in the kitchen, and he wasn't intimidated by Sherlock's very presence, which was uncommon enough with the everyday rabble Lestrade had him dealing with.

That wasn't to say that Collins wasn't still an idiot, but at least he'd brought excitement to an otherwise dull day, and that was saying something.

It was too bad that he'd had to threaten Mrs. Hudson to get there. Too bad that he'd placed John in the frankly alarming position of saving a dying man's life or watching his flatmate die instead. Too bad that he'd taken Sherlock's phone, that he was smart enough to post a guard, and that Sherlock knew that he had no intention of leaving the three of them unscathed at the end of all this.

Sherlock didn't take kindly to people threatening his landlady (as several unfortunate Americans had discovered not too far back). Sherlock didn't take kindly to people threatening his unassuming, not-stupid, unfailingly loyal, extraordinarily patient flatmate. And Sherlock definitely didn't take kindly to people threatening the world's only consulting detective.

He had only just started to formulate a thrilling, exciting, elaborate escape plan when his phone buzzed in Collins' pocket. From his perch in the window where he could keep both Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson in his sights, Collins' free hand moved slowly to pull it out.

"D. I. Lestrade," he said. "Call."

"He'll wonder why I don't pick up," Sherlock said. "I always answer Lestrade."

Collins hesitated for a fraction of a second, and then tossed the phone at Sherlock, who caught it in his right hand deftly.

"Answer it, then, but if you say anything that could tip him off she'll be dead. We might get caught, we might hang, but your landlady will be dead no matter what happens to us."

Mrs. Hudson whimpered. Sherlock wished a death wish upon the stony-faced man with brains and all the cards and answered the phone.

"Lestrade."

_"Sherlock, where are you? We've got a lead on the murder, moving to Kensington now, we've had a witness who saw them heading down…"_

"Busy, Lestrade. Can't come now."

_"Busy…but…Sherlock, this is important, this is your case! We need you to interrogate…"_

"Your men are more than capable, Lestrade. They can take care of this as well as I could."

_"They're cap…Sherlock, are you feeling alright?"_ Lestrade chuckled, but it trailed off when Sherlock didn't respond. _That's right, you idiot, piece it together. It's _not_ alright. Come on, something's wrong, pick it up._

"Oh, I'm fine. Couldn't be better, but I'm busy. Mrs. Hudson's come round for tea and I really can't put her off again. You know how I _hate_ it when she's upset."

_"Sherlock…"_

_ Oh, come ON! _"That case was dull anyway, Lestrade. Idiots, the lot of them, and not worth my time. I'd much rather be home this afternoon."

_"You're with them now, aren't you?"_

_You brilliant man. _"Of _course_ I think they're capable. Anderson's the best you've got, he can manage without me. Haven't got time to chat, Lestrade…"

_"All right, all right, don't overdo it, I'll start wondering if you're actually serious. John with you?"_

"Yes."

_"Your flat?"_

"He's in his element. Haven't seen him like this since that business with the Americans."

_"Armed, dangerous, injuries, in your flat, got Mrs. Hudson? I hope I'm getting this right, Sherlock. We're on our way. Keep them occupied."_

"Enough small talk," Collins growled, and Sherlock tossed him a withering glance but said into the phone, "Must be off, Lestrade. Best of luck."

_"Hold on."_

Collins took the phone back and stared momentarily at the screen before stowing it away in his pocket again. "I'm not stupid, you know," he said quietly. "You've tipped them off somehow. You think you're clever, you think we're all idiots, I get that...but even idiots know when something isn't quite right, even in a simple little conversation like the one you just had with your Yard friend."

Sherlock's heart thudded once, loudly, in his chest before resuming its normal pattern. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said softly, and even though he knew his poker face was flawless he knew it wouldn't matter. Knew in the way Collins' eyes had gone shadowed, the way his shoulders were tense, twisted slightly, the way his chest was rising and falling, the way the lines in his jaw were pulsing ever-so-gently, that it didn't matter what Sherlock said now, and it didn't matter what Sherlock had said on the phone.

Collins' lips tightened into a faint smile, and then he brought the gun up in one smooth arch and pointed it at Mrs. Hudson's chest.

Mrs. Hudson shrieked, and then her eyes rolled up in her head and she slumped back against the couch in a dead faint. Sherlock tensed. Every muscle in his body was on fire, every sense suddenly pulsing, his brain rushing, careening, barreling out of control, scenarios chasing themselves in an out of his head, possible outcomes, time ticking, ticking, ticking until the trigger was pulled and Mrs. Hudson paid for his underestimation…

"What…what is going…Sherlock, what's going on?"

John stood framed in the doorway, and the way the fading light from the setting sun hit him made him look like an avenging angel, his hair a blonde halo about his head, blood spattered across his shirt and arms.

"I spoke," Sherlock said. John's eyes darted to Mrs. Hudson, and a terrible anger settled deep into his tired features, followed by the beginnings of a disbelieving pain. He took a halting step into the room.

"And he shot…I'll kill him. I swear, I…"

"I haven't shot her. Not yet," Collins said. "Holmes has tipped off the Yard…"

"You did _what_?" John swung on Sherlock now, who rose with Collins, and now the three of them were standing in a rough triangle, furniture and books and pieces of Sherlock's experiment littering the floor space between them like the remnants of a battlefield. Tomlinson had followed John from the kitchen, and now his was gun trained on John's back. Collins swung his away from Mrs. Hudson's prone form to Sherlock's head.

"Lestrade called. I answered. This idiot here seems to think I tipped him off."

"And so he threatened to kill Mrs. Hudson."

"That sums it up."

John's fists clenched tight at his sides. "Banks will live. I've saved his bloody life, for whatever its worth. Does that mean anything to you?"

Collins shrugged. "I told you your flatmate would live if Banks did. I'll keep my word."

"And Mrs. Hudson? She's got no part in this, she's not part of it! Let her go, and I swear we'll head the Yard off. Sherlock, call Lestrade back, tell him not to come…"

"Tomlinson, you and Lindon get Banks out of here. Downstairs, through her flat, out the back." Collins glanced outside, where the sun had nearly set. "I'll follow."

The two men nodded and moved back into the kitchen, where they hauled Banks up, ignoring a groggy stream of curses as they shouldered him out. Collins waved at both John and Sherlock with the gun; they moved to stand together at one end of the room as he backed towards the door. Sherlock could feel the tension rolling off John in waves, could hear it in his harsh breathing, could see it out of the corner of his eyes in the set to John's jaw and the solid line of his shoulders.

"Breathe, John," he murmured. "They won't shoot her, not now."

"How can you possibly know…"

"Ah, good to see you're waking," Collins said smoothly as he reached the couch, and he pulled Sherlock's phone out of his pocket, tossed it on the couch, grasped a stirring Mrs. Hudson by the arm and swung her up in one fluid motion. She gasped and nearly fainted again, but he pinned her to his side with one arm and pointed the gun at her head with the other. "She comes with me. You send any of the Yard after us and she won't make it a minute. We get away, we release her, you come find her when we're gone. Understood?"

"Clearly," Sherlock said dryly, and he tried to send Mrs. Hudson a promise with his eyes, tried to communicate to her that he would come after her anyway, that he'd rip these men to shreds, that she'd be back home in no time at all, but her eyes were wide and terrified as Collins dragged her backwards out of the apartment. Her gaze flickered back and forth from John, who was rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet with unsuppressed rage and muttering a string of curses under his breath, to Sherlock, who felt all the stress and tension of the last few hours settle into his bones like lead that kept him rooted to the carpet.

"See, John?" he said hoarsely. "Hostage situation. Keeps them safer longer. He wouldn't kill her, not now that they're on the run again. He needs her."

Their staggering footsteps faded down the stairs, and John swung on Sherlock.

"I hope you've got a plan," he hissed.

Sherlock was already reaching for his coat.

* * *

Review! Let me know if everything looks/feels/sounds right. The second (final) chapter is almost finished, and I'll post it soon.


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you so much to all of my lovely reviewers! You inspired me to finish this today, and while I almost decided to go ahead and make it a three-parter just because of your enthusiasm, the story really just ends here. So I let it end, and I'm pleased with the way it turned out. Please let me know if it was worth the wait!

-Emrose

* * *

**Two**

"Lestrade, pull your men back; they've got Mrs. Hudson. John and I will handle it. No…no, Lestrade, I've been clear. Keep your men away. We'll take care of it. I won't risk the situation to your idiots, they'll only bungle it and get her shot. I'll phone you when it's all over."

Sherlock swung down the stairs, issuing hasty instructions into his phone as John leapt after him, shoving his arms into his sleeves of his black bomber jacket, scrubbing hopelessly at the spots of dried blood on his hands. He could smell it all over himself and all he wanted was a long, cold shower to rinse it all away, to stand under the spray and close his eyes and forget the bloody wound dripping all over the table, spotting his hands despite his best efforts to keep them gloved and clean and sanitary. The groans and whimpers of the injured man hovering in and out of consciousness were still whispering in his head, and he was tired, his back aching, and _oh_, was he angry.

Angry at his flatmate, the idiot-genius, for calling off the police in favor of a suicidal death mission to rescue a landlady who shouldn't have been taken hostage in the first place. Angry that he was afraid, angry that he was practically helpless, angry that he had no idea how they were going to pull this one off, angry that he had _done_ what they'd bloody asked of him (and it hadn't been easy, mind...he still wasn't quite sure how he'd made a handful of random surgical instruments, a kitchen table, and two escaped convicts stand in for a brilliant white hospital room full of all the necessary equipment with an experienced team of medical professionals) and _still_ he was haring off after a group of five large, nervous confirmed murderers when he should be sitting in his front room with an arm around Mrs. Hudson, drinking tea and watching crap telly to help her forget the feeling of a gun pressed to her temple.

"Sherlock!"

He crashed through Mrs. Hudson's pristine kitchen and out the back door after Sherlock, put on an extra burst of speed, and snagged the man's coat sleeve. Sherlock spun around to face him, and the expression that flashed across his face was one of surprise, contempt, irritation, but John ignored it.

"We can't just go chasing them through the backstreets of London," he said. "They've got an old woman and an unconscious bloke they're carting, they can't have gone far…just hang on."

"There's no time, John! They could have getaway cars…"

"Do they?"

Sherlock hesitated for a fraction of a moment, and then shook his head. "Not close. A ways."

"Then you've got thirty seconds to spare, so shut up and listen."

John almost relished this second, more surprised look on Sherlock's face, but decided he'd gloat later. Now was not really the time.

"They're going to be jumpy," he said. "They're going to be scared. Running on their own is one thing, running with a hostage is another. Collins might have a good head on his shoulders but he's going to be trigger-happy, especially since he knows—_thinks_—the police are on their way. We've got to take this carefully. Barreling in on them when they're on the edge is about the stupidest thing you could do."

"Had some experience with high-pressure hostage situations, have you?" Sherlock asked dryly, and John nodded curtly but didn't elaborate. "You're right, John, of course, which is why you're going to be the distraction. I'll circle around, catch them from the back…you don't have your gun, do you?"

John stared. "What? No. No, Sherlock, absolutely not. I'm not…no. This time, _you're _the distraction."

A vicious smile tore across his face as Sherlock's eyebrows contracted, his mouth opening to protest, but Sherlock had been right…this was his area. Sherlock might have had experience with hostage situations, but they'd always been controlled, with police for back-up, or so shrouded in mystery that he'd been the only one able to unravel the pieces. _This _situation, this was cut and dry. This was black and white. This was war, and Sherlock was not the leading expert when it came to war.

John was.

"They'll be expecting you. Make up an excuse for me, make it a good one. I'm going around the back. Do what you do best—talk til you're blue in the face, give me as much time as you can. Don't let them make it to wherever they're going before I get there. I'll take care of the rest."

"John…"

"Don't argue with me."

Sherlock opened his mouth again, but John brushed past him roughly, breaking into a sprint. Sherlock's hand closed in a vice around his arm, and he jerked around with an angry grunt.

"_What?_"

"You're sure you know what you're doing?" Sherlock asked in rush, his voice low, and John was about to snap back a sharp retort when he saw what was in Sherlock's eyes. Open concern, lurking guilt, uncertainty.

"Yeah," was all he said instead. "Yeah, I do. Trust me on this one, Sherlock."

It looked like it took everything he had, but Sherlock let go of his arm and nodded once. "Head north, circle around at the second light. They'll be making their way northeast. Cut in two blocks from Murray's—I'll have them behind the shop."

"Right."

Sherlock took off without a backward glance, and John glanced around, took a breath, and dove for the street.

* * *

_Incoming call._

When Gregory Lestrade's phone buzzed in his clenched fist, he answered it halfway through the first ring, before the ID had even popped up on the screen.

"Sherlock?"

"_Greg, it's John."_

"John? What's going on, where's Sherlock?"

John chuckled breathlessly—he was obviously on the move. But that was ok; Lestrade was fluent in Sherlock-and-John-on-the-run-speak. _"He's the distraction. Murrays. Head to Murrays, but keep a low profile. Let us get through to them before you come in all-hell blazing. We've got to get Mrs. Hudson out of there."_

"Sherlock doesn't know you're calling, does he?"

Again, John laughed mirthlessly. _"He's not in charge of this particular operation anymore. I am. And I decided back up would be nice. I've done this enough without, and a change of scenery's always good, you know."_

Lestrade forgot sometimes that John as a veteran, and a decorated one at that. He jerked a hand at his waiting officers. "Get ready to move out. Low profiles, we're only back-up! No sirens, no lights, keep your heads down!" Then back to John, "You know what you're doing, yeah?"  
_"Yeah. Look, gotta go. Wait for a signal."_

The call disconnected. Lestrade wondered if Sherlock knew he'd been demoted, and then he realized that he'd been demoted himself and grinned. It would do Sherlock some good to have an expert other than himself in charge. And if there was one person Lestrade trusted to boss Sherlock around, it was John Watson.

He led the way in the first car with Sally Donovan sitting beside him, tapping her fingers on the armrest attached to the door. She only waited two blocks before she said, staring out the front window, "So we're taking orders from Watson now."

"Looks like it." He wasn't in the mood to spar with Donovan. "He's got the most experience with this sort of thing."

"Well, he's a bit out of practice, isn't he? He hasn't been in the war for years now. He's going to muck it up if you let him."

"I trust him," Lestrade said, and though her words sent a prickle of doubt down his spine he ignored it. "Sherlock trusts him. That means you've got to trust him too."

"Look, I like Watson," Donovan pressed. "Don't think I don't. But he's not a professional. He knows less of this sort of thing than the freak.."

"Sally…"

"…alright, than _Holmes_ does, and he's not even a proper detective; he's just a civilian. And if he botches this we all get it. You can't afford more notes on your record. Letting Holmes have the run of the place is one thing, but letting an ex-army doctor take an operation is pushing it too far."

"Are you done?" Lestrade's fingers were white on the wheel, and he tossed a sideways glance at Donovan. She was staring at him, her brown eyes fierce.

"I just think you need to think about it," she said. "That's all I'm saying."

"I would, trust me, but I haven't got the time," Lestrade said. "This is John's game."

"It's not a game, sir. Not when there are civilian lives at stake."

"Aw, Sally…"

But then Murrays was looming out of the dusk at them, tucked partway down a one-way street with parallel parking lining one side, and Lestrade slammed the brakes and twisted into one of them, turning off the engine immediately and bursting out of the car. He held up a hand to keep his team inside their cars as Donovan joined him outside.

"We wait here for John's signal," Lestrade said, glancing around the dim street. "And I'll hear no more about it."

And he settled down, fingers drumming patterns on the top of the car, eyes roving from Murrays to the empty street to his team and back again, to wait.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson had been passed roughly to Connelly, and he gripped her upper arm firmly as she tripped and stumbled alongside him, breath coming in little whimpers. He didn't like having her with them, didn't that Collins had decided to take old woman as hostage instead of one of the men. It felt wrong, being rough with someone who could have been his grandmother, and so he tried to be gentle even though his anxiety was making him impatient.

"Keep up," he growled, and gave her a little tug, pushing away the faint guilt and shoving his free hand through his thick, unruly hair. The others were already several dozen yards ahead, even supporting Banks between two of them. She shot him a terrified look but picked up her pace infinitesimally; he noticed her effort and grudgingly gave her credit. He would have pegged her for fainting or sobbing or begging, but perhaps it was her sheer terror that was giving her both silence and the strength to keep slipping along in the dark beside him. They passed under a street lamp as the others rounded a corner, ducking into a wide alley lined with bins behind a row of shops.

Connelly swore as he and Mrs. Hudson rounded the corner too and found themselves up flat against the backs of his companions, who had stopped just a few feet into the mouth of the alley.

"What's the hold up?" he whispered loudly, and Tomlinson, one of Banks' arms wrapped around his shoulders, nodded forward. Connelly leaned around the taller man to see a long, lean, shadowy figure standing just in front of the far streetlight's glow at the opposite mouth of the alley, so that his face was cast into shadow.

"Holmes?"

Tomlinson nodded, face pinched and ugly, and Connelly dropped Mrs. Hudson's arm—she sagged, her breath coming hard, and he heard her whisper, "Sherlock" pitifully, but ignore her.

"Shoot him. Why doesn't Collins shoot…"

"I'd advise against shooting me," Holmes interrupted smoothly and though his voice was calm it was as cold and brittle as ice. Connelly saw that Collins' gun was already pointed directly at the shadowy man's heart, silencer protruding off the barrel and glinting in the distant streetlight. "It isn't in your best interests."

"I beg to differ," Collins said, and Holmes chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that echoed faintly in the alley and sent shivers up Connelly's spine. Mrs. Hudson's breath was coming in heated little sobs, and her fingers crept to her face again. He glanced sideways at her and saw that her gaze was riveted on Holmes, tears pooling at the corners of her eyes, lips moving in a silent prayer.

"But you would be wrong," he said, and began to walk languidly into the alley. "I am not your primary concern, but I can tell you what is. Not, however, if I am dead."

"Right now my primary concern is not hanging for murder," Collins said coolly, and he too began to move forward towards the advancing Holmes. "And you are nothing more than an obstacle. You've been nothing more than an obstacle all evening, and I don't know why I didn't shoot you in your own flat."

"The same reason you aren't going to shoot me now," Holmes said, a sardonic smile lighting his lips and making his odd, metallic eyes flash ice-gray. "Don't you want to know what that is?"

"I couldn't care less," Collins said, and Connelly thought, _Shoot him now! Stop talking and shoot and run!_ But Collins apparently did care, because he still didn't squeeze the trigger, and now he and Holmes were just a few yards apart, staring at each other. Tomlinson shifted, grunted uncomfortably, shrugging Banks' arm higher up on his shoulder. Connelly exchanged a look with him. It was time to go.

Collins seemed to have reached the same conclusion, because he waved an arm behind him, signaling _get ready, boys,_ and when he spoke again his voice was taut and final.

"I really, really couldn't care less."

"I'm going to tell you anyway," Holmes said, and his voice was as suddenly sharp as Collins' was firm, and it made the men pause with the words that had sounded like a command.

"What…"

"You didn't, and you won't, shoot me because of him."

"For the love of…who? What are you on about?"

And Holmes face lit again in a kind of manic smile, teeth flashing in the darkness, and his short laugh was savage and exhilarated.

"Why, John Watson, of course."

"Wat…" But Collins never finished the name, because before he could a small, compact juggernaut in a black bomber jacket and jeans flung itself over the wall of the alley and crashed into Collins, sending them both hard to the ground in a tangle of legs and breathless curses, and the gun went skittering away into the shadows. Tomlinson swore loudly and tugged Banks violently to one side; the wounded man screamed in pain, and Lindon, who was supporting him on the other side, almost tipped over with the force of Tomlinson's pull. Tomlinson dumped Banks roughly against the side of the alley behind a small, squat bin, shouting at Lindon to leave him, leave him, get Watson, move out before the coppers get here, and Connelly registered and obeyed too.

He grabbed Mrs. Hudson's arm again and dragged her over next to the semi-conscious Banks, shoving her down—she collapsed onto one hip and shrieked, clutching at her leg, shrieked again and again, and Connelly reached down and slapped her across the face desperately, fury and fear making his hands shake.

"Shut up!" he bellowed. "Shut up!"

Her eyes were huge in her face, her hair flying across her forehead in little wisps; she looked close to hysteria, but as Connelly straightened up something else flashed across her face—an odd, defiant, terrified sort of look, and her eyes focused on something behind his shoulder. He started to turn, but then a hand grasped his upper arm and he was flung around, shoulder wrenching nearly out of his socket, and slammed violently into the wall next to Mrs. Hudson and Banks, the breath exploding out of his lungs.

"Do _not_ touch her. I swear to God I'll kill you before you touch her again."

He had never seen a face so contorted with righteous anger. The smooth, kind face that had looked more used to bemusement or humor was hot and tight with rage. The blue eyes were dark and hooded, the lips paper-thin, and the hands clenching Connelly's sweater front, up near his neck, felt like iron cuffs at his throat.

If Holmes was all ice, John Watson was fire.

He took all this in in a split second, and he couldn't draw breath, not with Watson's hands tight at his throat, but before he could struggle Watson had let go with his right hand, reared back, and then his fist had connected with Connelly's nose and he was sliding down the wall, back scraping against the rough stone, cradling his face and moaning in shock as blood began to pour from both nostrils in twin rivers down his chin.

"There. Justice," Watson said from above him, sounding a little breathless himself, and Connelly felt nothing but shock, his brain trying desperately to catch up, watching as Watson knelt down swiftly a few feet away, cupping Mrs. Hudson's face in gentle hands—hands that had only seconds before broken Connnelly's nose.

"There, are you alright? Okay?" he heard the doctor whisper, and at her slight nod a smile graced his features, crinkling the edges of his eyes. Watson glanced sideways at the again-unconscious Banks, then shot daggers at Connelly, and then looked over his shoulder at the dim alley behind him, where Lindon sat clutching his leg against the far wall and Sherlock was still brawling with Collins and Tomlinson.

"I'll be back. Sit tight," Watson said, and as he rose he pressed a soft, brief kiss to Mrs. Hudson's forehead. Then he straightened, tensed for flight. "You." He was looking at Connelly again, whose nose was beginning to throb. Through the pain he registered the fire returning to Watson's eyes and was almost grateful he was sitting here in a puddle of his own blood instead of facing a fist-fight in the alley with this man. "Remember what I said. Touch her and I promise you I _will_ kill you."

Connelly didn't reply, but Watson didn't wait for one. Turning, he plunged into the fight. Sherlock had been steadily losing ground, though Connelly was grudgingly impressed that the pale, whip-thin man had held his own rather impressively against the two bulkier men for this long. Watson yanked Tomlinson off Sherlock, where had almost succeeded in placing the detective in a chokehold, whipped the man around, and easily ducked the heavy punch Tomlinson threw at his face.

Then, as Connelly watched, Watson methodically, carefully, professionally, tore Tomlinson apart.

It was over in less than a minute—Tomlinson lay in heap on the alley floor, curled in on himself, groaning. Watson stood over him, shaking out his right hand, hair mussed, the knees of his jeans dirty, jacket slightly askew on his broad shoulders, but otherwise unruffled. He focused on Tomlinson for a moment as if to make sure he didn't try to get up again, and then glanced at Sherlock, who was putting what looked like the final touches on his brawl with Collins.

Connelly shook his head, and then regretted it as lights popped in front of his eyes.

Within minutes, these two men had destroyed all five of them. Banks, granted, hadn't been much help, but Holmes and Watson should have posed no threat at all, shouldn't have been part of the equation, shouldn't have been an issue in their escape.

And as he watched them move towards each other in the alley, Sherlock's low, rumbling laughter reaching his ears, fury broke inside him like thunder, and he flung himself forward and grabbed Mrs. Hudson, who had been watching the whole scene with a glazed look in her eyes, mouth slightly open, one hand still pressed to her hip. She screamed, and both Watson and Holmes whipped around, poised, as Connelly dug in his pocket for his broad black switchblade, cracked it open, and pressed it to her neck.

"I'm not going to prison," he breathed—it hurt to talk, and blood still ran from his nose, drying on his chin and oozing sticky and warm down his neck. "I'm not going. I'm walking away. You boys stay back, or I'll slit her open. I swear to you I will."

It seemed ages ago now that he had thought of her almost as his grandmother—now she was a bargaining chip, a piece in the game, a ticket out, and he was taking it.

And neither the ice-cold, bleak fury in Holmes' gaze or the red-hot, blistering rage in Watson's was going to stop him.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson looked to have passed out again. The man with the broken face—Connelly, wasn't it?—was holding her upright with one arm, and the other hand was holding a long, glinting switchblade to her throat.

Sherlock felt something like fear constrict his chest uncomfortably, fluttering at the edges of his mind, and he pushed it away angrily. Now was not the time for passion, for emotion—it was best to leave all that to John.

"Now _that_," he said, "is not in your best interest either. Oh, no, you do not want to be doing _that_."

Connelly laughed, and it caught on the blood in his mouth and came out more of a wheeze. "I'll make that call. She's coming with me, and you're going to back away and go sit yourselves down behind Murrays around the corner." He jerked his head to the right to indicate the shop, but neither Sherlock or John turned to look. "Now."

"Careful, Sherlock," John muttered from Sherlock's right. "He's more dangerous now…"

"I know, I know," Sherlock snapped, but John ignored him.

"…than he was with the rest of his pals. He's in crisis, and he isn't going to hear anything you say. His brain is completely shutting down, and he's going to walk away with her no matter what you say so why don't you shut up and let me handle this."

He said this all very quickly, and Sherlock glanced down at John, surprised, wondering where this little man had _come_ from, and then John had taken a small step back, out of his line of vision, and he thought _no, can't retreat, John, it's Mrs. Hudson,_ but John was speaking again and Sherlock let him, curiosity only just stronger than his desire to lunge forward and break Connelly's nose for the second time.

"All right," John said, but as Sherlock started to move back too he felt John's hand press briefly into the small of his back and he understood that John wanted him to stay put, wanted to be shielded, and he straightened up and let John slide ever-so-slightly behind him so that his right side was in front of John's left just enough…John's hand slipped into the pocket of his bomber jacket, and Sherlock felt the movements and knew that John was sending a signal, knew that John must have contacted Lestrade, knew that he must have called for backup, and even as he felt a slight twinge of annoyance he grudgingly acknowledged that this time, just this time, John had been ahead of him.

"Talk," John hissed, and Sherlock complied. As Lestrade's phone rang, he covered the faint bells issuing from John's pocket with his own voice, hearing the sounds streaming off his tongue without being really sure what he was saying but supremely confident in his ability to keep a common criminal distracted with the perfect blend of insult and intrigue, keeping Connelly's eyes fixed on his face and away from Lestrade's tinny voice now issuing from John's pocket. Then it stopped and Sherlock knew that Lestrade was listening, so he tossed a few discreet clues in, one part of his brain reminiscing about Collins' annoying smarts at picking up on his _last_ coded conversation with Lestrade even as he knew that Connelly wasn't bright enough to clue in so it really didn't matter.

John's hand moved again in his pocket and then withdrew, and immediately there were footsteps from the adjoining street and Connelly's eyes widened.

"Cops? You called for backup?"

"Now, hang on a minute," John said placatingly, holding up his hands in front of him and taking the half-step forward again so that he and Sherlock were shoulder-to-shoulder again. "Let her go and we'll give you a chance to run. You'll be caught anyway, but sentence might be more lenient if you let her go. Kill her or injure her in any way and I _will_ keep my promise. Fair?"

"Bloody…" Connelly swore and flung Mrs. Hudson away from him, and she crumpled to the ground. Connelly bolted, and John turned, shouted _"Gun!" _at Lestrade, who was pounding towards him down the alley, and Sherlock saw Lestrade pitch his own handgun at John, shock at his own actions written cleanly across his face even as the gun left his hand.

Sherlock smiled. This was going to end nicely.

John caught the gun in one hand, spun, whipped it up, and fired, and the shot cracked through the air, clean and tight, and Connelly bucked to the ground just before he turned the corner.

"Clean through the shoulder. Get him patched up," John said. He flipped the gun around and offered it back to Lestrade, a ghostly smile on his lips. "Self-defense, right?"

"Right," Lestrade said, and he looked at Sherlock, who shrugged.

"Looked like self-defense to me. Sally?"

Sally Donovan, who had come up behind Lestrade (and judging by her slack mouth and wide-eyed ogling at John's face had seen the whole thing), glared at him, but she nodded.

"Self-defense." It sounded like it had cost her everything to agree with him, but Lestrade shot her a smile.

"Looks like he can take care of himself," he said. Sally huffed. Sherlock smirked. John rolled his eyes, and then together he and Sherlock turned to Mrs. Hudson, glanced at each other, and held an impromptu foot-race to her side.

* * *

John insisted on riding in the ambulance with Mrs. Hudson, and Sherlock let him have the honors only reluctantly.

"Take good care of her," he said. "She's the only landlady we've got."

John's face was soft again and he took Mrs. Hudson's hand and squeezed it gently. "I know."

Sherlock reached inside the ambulance and patted her leg, which was the only part of her he could reach. "Faking unconscious was brilliant, Mrs. Hudson," he said. "If you'd been awake he would have tried to take you with him."

Mrs. Hudson chuckled weakly and leaned up shakily to crinkle a smile in his direction, her eyes bright and twinkling. "I learned from the best, Sherlock dear."

"Wait, you…you were faking…why, Mrs. Hudson," John said, and Sherlock laughed too, tossing a quick wink at John's wonder as he shut the doors in his flatmate's face. He rapped the back with his knuckles and it slowly pulled away. Through the back windows he caught a glimpse of John admonishing Mrs. Hudson. He slipped his hands into the pockets greatcoat, and amid the flashing lights of panda cars and chaos of radio static and Yard officers handling cuffed, worse-for-wear thugs into the backs of more ambulances he turned on his heel to find Lestrade.

* * *

Again, thank you so much for reading. This chapter has a lot of povs, and I apologize for that, but it just worked that way. I hope it wasn't distracting.

Review please!


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